


Let Me Pretend

by GammaRays



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaRays/pseuds/GammaRays
Summary: 'Were my heart capable of emotion, it would have broken; had I a soul, it would have quivered.Now it is my hands that his soul is in, and yet, despite awareness of that, it is me that he curls up against.'





	Let Me Pretend

He lays curled up atop the bedsheets, the thin fabric bunched up in his small, bony fists as his whole frame trembles. A soft, pitiful whine escapes his throat every now and again; uncontrolled, as if he were delirious with fever. I sit back and watch him, wrinkling my nose. His soul _reeks_ of agony, of anguish, of unfulfillment – despite the fact that his body has just been thoroughly satisfied – and of the ever-present loneliness; a smell so constant I sometimes forget it’s even there. But another spice that I sense bearing down on that tormented heart of his is disappointment.

Oh, young Master, how very human you are.

Throughout the countless years of my overly-long life I’ve observed those fragile, foolish, little creatures as a form of entertainment and passing the time. I’ve watched the young and the old; the rich and the poor, the healthy and the sick, in every corner of the globe. Though they vary somewhat in their aspirations, behaviours, and personalities, there’s one thing that always remains constant, and it’s a thing that so many of them will try to reject – just like many beings, they’re _pack_ animals. Their weak souls, minds, and bodies are not built for lonesome survival. Even powerful death-defying beings like angels, reapers, or even demons such as myself – we rely on some kind of companionship. Granted, it is not essential to our survival, but it makes the passage of time that less bit tiresome and dull.

And then there’s this little, weak, quivering _bug_ that will deny it all and claim he doesn’t need anyone. How hypocritical of you, tiny Earl, after you forbade me to lie. Or have you been telling yourself this for so long that you started to believe this? How very foolish of you that would be. Is this why the disappointment permeates your core? Oh, you’re such an open book, little boy. Were you hoping that laying with me would quench this hollow pull of loneliness in your heart? How desperate you must have been to drag your demon butler to bed and _beg_ for more and more pain so that you could _feel_. How enchantingly twisted is your soul for you to take such measures, instead of openly seek out and accept the affection and comfort from other people around you. But if it’s you butler’s ‘comfort’ that you seek – your butler sworn to secrecy about your weaknesses, should you wish – then I’ll give it to you in return for you always being such an enjoyable pastime of mine.

His reaction to me resting my cold, bare hand on his shoulder blade is not unlike one he might have given me had I thrown a bucket of icy water at him. He startles and shivers, his breaths coming in trembling, quiet gasps. But what’s most captivating is the powerful shift in his emotions, so intense I can smell it so easily as if it were something physical right under my nose. And yet, this time, I cannot tell what it is. It’s a concoction I can’t decode, utterly mingled and intertwined and conflicting. It could be relief, or it could be fear. It could be anger just as well as it could be longing. Perhaps it’s serenity or despair or something in between. Maybe it’s a bone-deep _ache_ for _something._

‘S-Sebastian…’

The mark on my hand thrums with his meek, almost silent call. ‘Yes, my Lord?’

He speaks my name once more and the seal itches again at his unspoken commands. With all the patience of a centuries-old being, I withdraw my hand as he moves and watch him slowly push himself up on his thin arms to a sitting position. He doesn’t look at me. I take in his coloured cheeks – rosy from exertion and being pressed into the sheets – and the red water-lines of his big, mismatching eyes. I sit and observe with silent awe and fascination at this boy’s unusual behaviour, giving me a rare insight at the splendour and depth of his soul, filled with emotions and desires much more complex and diverse than just anger and thirst for revenge. No – at such rate occasions as these, my little Master, you’re the most alluring of all creatures; your soul is that of a child and of an old, withered man; it is the filthiest, cruellest destruction, and yet it shines so brightly through the darkness that it scorches everything to dust. You’re both wise through your experiences, and utterly foolish through your humanity. Your endurance seems to have no limits, and yet you’re nothing but a crawling insect under my thumb. You’re my perfect little paradox and impossibility, wrapped up and burning in this small body now so open and honest, laying all your secrets bare. At times like these, my Lord, you remind me once more why I dress up and play our little game of earl and butler; why it is all worth it.

Words seem to rest on the tip of his tongue, but they stay there. He looks so utterly lost, so uncertain of himself, so very unlike the proud figure he is by day, protected by his expensive robes. I watch him still as he lowers himself back down but must admit that him laying his head and hand on my lap surprises me. He’s so very still, as if he were already dead. I humour him by carding my fingers through his hair, stroking gently; something humans ought to find comforting. I feel the tension slowly seep out from his muscles. He brings his knees to his chest as he lays on his side, which makes him look even more vulnerable and fragile.

Were my heart capable of emotion, it would have broken; had I a soul, it would have quivered. This little human with his loved ones ripped away from him and replaced with strangers inflicting torture I saw in the deepest pits of Hell, with a title and a name too big for him, and with a demon at his side whose teeth are always hovering above his claimed soul, ready to devour it. This little creature who gave up his essence for slaughter and eternal annihilation in return for just a few mere years free from the pain and humiliation he endured at the hands of his captors. Now it is my hands that he’s in, and yet, despite awareness of that, it is me that he curls up against.

‘Young Master…’ I begin to slowly withdraw my hand, wanting to reason with him about the absurdity of seeking comfort from the one who’ll soon extinguish his existence; but in response to my disappearing touch he jerks so violently that I pause.

‘No!’ It’s nothing more than a panicked gasp. ‘Not… Not yet. Let me believe- Let me pretend, just for a moment longer.’

As his loyal butler I obey, and renew my caresses of his head, feeling a small, wet patch forming on my thigh where his face rests against the black fabric.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm constantly suffering over Black Butler, day and night, for the past few weeks after SOMEONE dragged me into it, and I just wanted to put some thoughts together and this happened. (Mature rating for mentions at the beginning???¿¿?? I don't know?¿)
> 
> Might add more to it some time, but probably not.  
> EDIT 17/03/: 'Probably not?' Hahaha that was just a joke, now this is a 24k-word-long angstfest that you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001006


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